


He Hunts for Her

by ChocolateChipFic (Leigh_B)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Feynite's TDWH AU, Franken!Solas AU
Genre: F/M, He's letting some of the crazy out where no one's gonna get hurt..., Kinda' Creepy, Scary overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7847200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leigh_B/pseuds/ChocolateChipFic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this ficlet, Andruil creeps into the front lines of Franken!Solas' personality as he seeks a huntsman's prize as a courting gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Hunts for Her

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feynite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/gifts).



> I tried, you guys. I really did. I'm not entirely sure what this is, but the sexual overtones were not intended. I think intention should count for something. I really do.

She is an excellent hunter. This much is evident in the game she stockpiles as well as the uptick in marksmanship that he noted in Da’vhenan. It will not do to prey on quarry that she herself could garner, though he is still convinced that offering her a huntsman’s prize is the correct choice for a courting gift.

She was disinterested in jewelry, which hadn’t surprised him. She usually wore none save for the thin loops piercing the lengths of her ears. Da’vhenan had insisted, however, that she would value something that the two of them made together. While Halani did occasionally wear the pendant that they made for her, it was not received with the relish that one hopes to stir when bestowing gifts of such a nature. He did not think that she would appreciate clothing, as the things that she wears are often utilitarian more than ornamental. Material gifts in general do not seem to appeal to her. Offerings of food were not needed, as she had well organized enough in their months of preparation.

He hopelessly persists in giving her fresh figs in spite of this, as she seems very fond of them. Unfortunately, the monotonous and mysterious perfectly ripened figs were beginning to make her suspicious more than appreciative. She continues to eat them without voicing any qualms toward his source of the delicate fruit, imparting only silence and skeptical glances as she takes them from him.

Hunting is something to which she can relate, and so, he will hunt something. Indeed, something that will impress her. It will be the feat as much as the prize serving as her gift.

If griffons still live in this realm, perhaps one of them?

No. No, his daughter delights in them. She would be saddened by the sight of one such feathered corpse. It wouldn’t do to upset Da’vhenan with the gift.

A dragon, perhaps?

No. To offer a dragon is to lack originality. Everyone kills a dragon as a sign of might and devotion. No dragons.

He was becoming frustrated.

Sedately, as a glaze pours over thirsty clay, the world around him becomes vivid. The distance he so often maintains diminishes. He feels acutely the sting of snow pressing into the naked pads of his paws. His breath huffs through his teeth in steaming clouds that tease his cold nose with fleeting warmth. Each color is brighter. Each scent overwhelming in its luscious vivacity.

He knows this edge. This _drive_. He has not allowed it to dwell within him since coming to himself, and still it rushes familiar trails through him as though not a day has passed. Clever and boundless and bold, it sinks into him as his senses do. His muscles tense, and he bares his fangs to the forest around him. His snarl echoes, fur bristling with the sheer thrill of being the most terrible thing in the woods.

In his mind there is howling. His thoughts are an unending roil that bursts from him in spontaneous instinctual acts. He runs, racing only himself as he chases and snaps at the small game he startles in his fervor. A dense patch of undergrowth hides a cache of roosting quail, fat and frightened as they huddle together beneath his presence. He can hear their quivering.

It is easy to creep toward them, playing at pawing through snow in another direction. He jumps, eager for the taste of blood to wet his mouth. He snags one around the middle in an instant and pops it in his teeth like a warm, briny grape. Its fellows flee in a squawking torrent, unaccustomed to moving in the dark. The frosted ground glitters in the moonlight. It is stained with a crimson so bright that it remains in his eyes after he is distracted with a new fancy.

He digs until he can rake the earth with his claws, relishing the raw odors that have seeped into the ground through the snowpack. He catches the scent of a doe. She lacks the gamier edge of a buck, but still smells of tawny fur and the sugary tree sap of the bark and twigs she’s subsisted upon this winter.  

He runs his tongue over his nose, nearly tasting her traces beneath the remnants of the bird. His eyes stray toward the source of her warm scent, though he is fully aware that she will not do. It wouldn’t be worth the effort to track her. Halani could do so herself.

At thoughts of Halani a force of possessive anticipation slams into him. As he stalks through the forest his thoughts linger lasciviously on what he can recall of her shape. Her skin. Her _smell_. It is not often that such thoughts draw him to her. They exist, but in a fleeting array of nuances that fall in priority beneath the way her voice soothes him or the smiles she shares with their daughter.

This night they do not fade. This night, as he tears through the bountiful prey of these lands, he hunts not for a lowly beast. He hunts for her.


End file.
